


Begin Again

by lttledcve, spinncr



Series: Valar Dohaeris [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Do-Over, F/M, Fix-It, Older Man/Younger Woman, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, mostly season 8 compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-12 19:41:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19235809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lttledcve/pseuds/lttledcve, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinncr/pseuds/spinncr
Summary: It takes too much time and not nearly enough before they are riding through the gates of Winterfell. He can hardly breathe for fear and anticipation. She’s here, she has to be here.Jaime thinks he might die if he finds his wife staring longingly at his nephew.***Series compliant Time Travel Fic, wherein Jaime and Sansa are wed and die before Daenerys razes King's Landing. They wake up in the past, only not together. Sansa wakes up a few moons before the King travels to Winterfell. Jaime wakes up seventeen years prior to that moment, the day of Cersei's wedding.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Dragon's Roar](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14172975) by [Priestess_of_Groove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Priestess_of_Groove/pseuds/Priestess_of_Groove). 



> This is an RP jaimsa story, and thus the POVs will shift every few paragraphs. It's also part of a much, much longer series, which will be updated regularly. Much of the series is already written. If you enjoy what you've read, please subscribe to the _series_ , rather than the fic, as there is more to come!

  ** _j a i m e:_**

_Things are better in Winterfell. I wasn’t the only one to grow up while I was away._

_I wasn’t the only one to grow up._

The words have been bouncing around Jaime’s head for moons now, ever since he got Jon’s raven. It doesn’t mean anything, it doesn’t even mention any names, but he knows. He _knows_ . She’s back, she has to be. He’s been waiting a lifetime, _her_ entire lifetime, longer even. He had had to hold onto something, couldn’t let himself believe he was alone in this place—not anymore. Neither the Old Gods or the New could possibly trust him alone with a task this immense. He certainly won’t be able to get through it on his own, not without her. No matter the improvements to his personality, he will always be the sword in front of another’s keener, sharper mind. It’s what he’s good at, what he’s happiest with. Only in this life, that keener, sharper mind won’t belong to his delusional sister.

It’s been seven hells in Kings Landing all this time, having to contend the weight of his knowledge, of his past life, with the life and relationships of his younger, hopelessly egocentric self. Extracting himself from his sister’s arms alone he had been sure would cost him his head, let alone preparing the kingdoms for the Long Night approaching, and the war that waited after that. Even this second time around, he doesn’t have a head for politics, particularly since it had been years since such a thing had been required of him. Politics, decorum, courtesies… they’d all lost their use long before his last, final march North. Perhaps when Cersei had blown the Sept of Baelor into dust, sacrificing their son in the process. Maybe before then. When the dead marched, certainly, they’d had other problems to worry about.

Still, he had done his best. Tyrion had become his sounding board, his conduit, his guide through the perilous waters that were the Red Keep. It was Tyrion who suggested to Uncle Kevan building up the Lannister fleet in the wake of the Ironborn attack of Lannisport—using Northern ironwood, no less—not only to restore to its former size, a meagre seven-and-twenty trading ships, but to add warships, patrol ships, to triple the fleet in size. It was a gamble, of course. In the event of another War of Five Kings, a fleet in the hands of the Lannisters—in the hands of _his sister—_ could do untold damage. He hasn’t forgotten what Cersei did with the Iron Fleet, not even after all this time. Still, he had hoped the influx of trade to the North would outweigh the possible risks.

And that was only one of the differences he and his brother (unwittingly, on Tyrion’s part) had managed to bring about. And with each miniscule departure from the script of his last life, he got closer to her.

His wife.

Winterfell appears in the distance, barely a smudge on the horizon yet, but closer than he’s been to her for almost two decades. His palms have been sweaty since they crossed through the Neck, and he can’t help but scan the landscape before him, remembering. _This is the scene of half my nightmares. I left one hellhole to journey straight into another._

The entire North is riddled with these pitfalls in his memory, horrors rising out of the rolling green hills, things he has forgotten to be afraid of. He knows Winterfell will only be worse; he hasn’t forgotten anything that happened when the Long Night reached the castle. But she will be there. His wife.

It takes too much time and not nearly enough before they are riding through the gates of Winterfell. He can hardly breathe for fear and anticipation. She’s here, she _has_ to be here.

He thinks he might die if he finds his wife staring longingly at his nephew.

Another change, that. His nephew is actually his nephew this time around. There’s surely another convoluted relationship on the father’s side—he never bothered to confirm which Lannister sired his sister’s children, though he has his suspicions—but since it is not him, and not the king, he doesn’t care to know the specifics. Still, the boy isn’t quite as cruel as his predecessor, though he’s no joy to be around. He will not make a kind or considerate ruler, that is for sure.

He maneuvers his horse into the courtyard, and almost cannot bring himself to look for her. He searches out Jon first, smirking at the boy who is grinning widely at him. Grinning at him from his place at Sansa’s side. Right in line with the trueborn sons and daughters of Ned Stark. His eyes widen, and flicker to Jon’s right side, and he nearly drowns in those blue eyes. Tully blue eyes, and locked straight on him.

It’s her, it’s Sansa, _his wife._ She’s here.

 

**_s a n s a:_ **

That morning she had woken up, feeling warmer than she had in years, to find the concerned face of Lady Catelyn Stark hovering over her Sansa had let out a strangled noise of protest before she promptly fainted.

It had been a simple throw away wish, to want to go back in time. To do so much over – to know and fall in love with her husband before the imminent threat of the Night King and the Dead, and the Dragon Queen. But here, she is without him. It’s the first time in as long as she can remember that she wakes up without him by her side, and there’s no telling if she’s truly here alone or if he is here too. This, this is something else. It takes time to figure out where she is in her own life once she comes to. It’s before the royal court’s arrival to Winterfell, that’s easy enough to tell. Lady – _Lady is here_ – follows her throughout the Keep, and Sansa surprises everyone when she asks her father where Jon Snow is, when she can’t find him anywhere.

It’s the first sign that her husband is here too, somewhere, when it’s explained –with some confusion on her family’s part at her interest – that Jon will be returning to Winterfell soon, and that he’s been squiring with Ser Jaime Lannister.

It’s her husband. It must be. There’s no reason the knight to had arrived at Winterfell nearly eight years ago would have taken an interest in Ned Stark’s bastard son.

Maybe she’s reading too much into. But it’s the thoughts that she allows herself to have when no one is looking, when no one is paying attention to the thirteen-year-old girl who is supposed to be planning and dreaming, and waiting for her own knight like every fair maiden does in the songs.

In a way, maybe she is.

She takes her Aunt’s death as a sign too.

There are things Sansa isn’t used too either. She must let go of being the Lady of Winterfell in some ways, but in others her mother seems more than happy to _teach_. To give her some more, minor responsibilities. Sansa takes them in stride, and uses what she knows to make sure the same mistakes aren’t made.

No one really listens to children so closely, but there are small changes she can make for now.

She keeps a keen eye on Bran and his climbing.

And Jon.

Sansa can’t make up for the years prior to this, but she can make things better for him now. The moment that he returns to Winterfell he’s greeted _warmly_ , and he returns her embrace almost hesitantly. She can silent comments she hears with a cool look – a quiet reproach, and while she cannot silence her mother...She doesn’t need to validate Catelyn’s feelings either.

The change is subtle – but it’s enough to distract Sansa from the date she has memorized in her head. She knows when King Robert Baratheon will show up with Cersei Lannister, with Joffrey  - she’s gathered he’s still the prince after all – and Jaime. Jaime will come too, and it has to be him. It has to be her husband.

_______________________

“Usually I’m the one fidgeting,” Arya quips as she takes her place at Sansa’s other side, the helmet falling so low on her head that Sansa has to smother a laugh. “I’m not,” she says simply, in a way that begs no further argument – apart from Jon who doesn’t hide his snort.

She is, and if it weren’t for the fact that she is standing between both Jon and Arya she might’ve fallen right over by now.

It’s the scene that she’s replayed over and over in her mind for as long as she can remember. It used to haunt her, this last time before she had stupidly fallen for songs that didn’t exist. The carriage is exactly as she remembers it, the sheer amount of opulence that the King brings with his Lannister bride...only something else is wildly out of place.

The young boy, the prince, riding in with the Kingsguard is not the Joffrey Baratheon she remembers.

Her husband, he’s changed this too.

If there had been any doubt, it’s long gone now. And so, Sansa watches him. She watches him remove his helmet and look for his young squire. She knows Jon is excited too, though privately she wagers that it’s impossible to rival her own.

It’s only when he catches her gaze, and they lock eyes, that the corner of Sansa’s mouth quirks upwards in a private small smile, and she ducks her chin. It’s as close to a playful curtsy that she can get to without being noticed, or offending the King.

Her sister must catch her gaze because suddenly there’s an elbow in her side. “You’re daydreaming again, Sansa.”

“Just don’t stick me with that sword you stole,” she teases quietly under her breath, the urge to hush her younger sister for the sense of something like propriety completely **_gone_ **.

 

**_j a i m e:_ **

_She’s a child_.

He knew she would be, of course. For all of Cersei’s taunts, he’s not actually a simpleton, but still it’s different knowing a thing and _seeing_ _it._ She’s a _child._ Her head probably just reaches his shoulder, if that. Her baby fat still lines her cheeks, softening the sharp lines of her jaw he’d memorized so many years ago. While nothing approaching the frills of Myrcella’s gowns, her dress too is more childish, none of the austerity of the clothes they had all worn at the end—fabrics reused and repurposed, no thread spared for fine embroidery or beadwork when it was needed for stitching up wounds and clothing the smallfolk.

And yet, their eyes meet, and he swears hers sparkle, and the cheeky nod she bestows upon him is not coming from any child. It’s his wife, it’s _her_ . They had never had much cause to smile, let alone smirk, but they found reasons. _Many_ reasons, usually tucked under a dozen furs because even the heated walls of Winterfell couldn’t keep the chill away.

He can’t help himself— _it’s her!—_ he grins, wide and bright, brighter than he has in two decades, brighter than is smart, and it only dims when he catches the expression of the no-longer late Lady of Winterfell.

Ah.

Catelyn Stark. In another life he’d promised to return her daughter to her. He’d failed on both counts, several times over. He’d protected Sansa as best he could—Arya too, though she hardly needed or wanted it—but not well enough. They’d all died in the end.

The Lady Stark follows his gaze to her children—hopefully she assumes he was grinning at Jon rather than her prized eldest daughter (who is a _child_ ), but that’s not likely to win him any favors either.

He looks away, though he longs to go to her, to hold her, to hear her speak and tell him all the wonderful cunning things she’s plotting and planning, all the things he’s so hopeless at. They’ll have time for that soon enough, he’ll make sure of it. For now he watches the king—just as unlikable as the first time around, only for less personal reasons this time—fumble his way off his horse, too fat to accomplish the task on his own. He watches the exchange between Ned Stark—ah, Honorable Ned Stark, won’t _that_ be fun to experience a second time around—watches the king leave his sister without a second glance for the ghost of a woman who never wanted him to begin with—suddenly _way_ more amusing than it had been when he first learned the truth. He watches all these echoes of another life unfold, as disorienting as such instances have always been, and tries to avoid her gaze, but can’t quite help himself.

Jon and Arya—seven hells, how small she is—pick fun at their sister and he watches carefully for the antagonism that had been occasionally present even at the end in their old life, but Jon’s eyes crinkle fondly and there’s something fragile in Arya’s gaze, like she’s expecting Sansa to snap at any moment, but is cautiously pleased that she hasn’t yet.

His heart constricts in his chest and he looks her over one more time. He should’ve expected her youthfulness, should’ve planned for that, but even so, he’s not even displeased. He doesn’t care how old, how _young,_ she is, just laying eyes on her is enough to lift the weight of decades off his shoulders.

The crowd in the courtyard disperses, and he follows a maid to his room—interestingly, a different room than he was offered last time. All he wants is to find Sansa and yet there is etiquette to follow, rules to respect. If anyone sees either one of them near the other’s room, they will immediately think the worst. And they’d be right, in one respect. Jaime finds he has no interest in anything carnal, not until she’s at least four inches taller, but she’s his _wife_ , and he loves her. He doubts a lack of carnality would satisfy Lady Stark’s worries. This is going to be more difficult than he had anticipated.

 

**_S a n s a:_ **

It’s the most they’ll get, she thinks, with an audience. But Jaime’s answering grin is all Sansa needs to know in the meantime. It’s _him,_ and he knows it’s her. His grin fades just as quickly as she manages to see it, but it’s for the best. Her sudden lack of interest with being Joffrey Baratheon’s Queen isn’t lost on her mother, and the last thing they need is more scrutiny. Not when she’s already helped her mother figure out where to place everyone to give them the best advantage to use whatever time they can steal away while at Winterfell.

Sansa’s attention is pulled from a comment she hears but knows she’s not supposed to – as Jon Snow is greeted by the Baratheon Court with his siblings. Cousins, if it’s technical, but Sansa refuses to acknowledge him as anything but _brother._ Blue eyes narrow and her smile fades, but silence draws as the King pulls her father into a hug and the introductions begin again.

It’s hard to give Cersei Lannister anything resembling a timid smile, but she does her best before politely addressing everyone else who is directed their way.

For once, she can’t fault Ayra’s impatience. The pomp and circumstance feels like it’s taking forever, and she knows the traveling party will be invited to rest before the feast and she wants to – needs to – find Jaime before that. Even still her hand reaches down to subtly rest against her sister’s forearm in what Sansa hopes is a gentle admonishment.  It isn’t much longer, and she has to fight her own breath of relief when their parents begin to lead the King and Queen inside the Keep.

“I forgot something, I’ll find you after I go and get it.”

“Sansa, it can’t be that important.”

It is. It’s the most important thing she can think of, but she can’t explain that. Not when she’s already gaining so much attention from her family – “I have to,” Sansa stresses. “Today has to be perfect.”

It’s the right thing to say, and she knows it the moment the words leave her lips. It’s something she would’ve said as a child – the child she had been without her current memories – and instead of hurrying off towards where she thinks her husband is hidden, leaving her siblings behind to worry...She hears laughter as she rounds the corner, and she smiles.

If he isn’t in his rooms maybe he’ll be in Godswood. She doesn’t expect him to pray to the Old Gods, or the New, but he knows it’s a safe place – her safe place.

Her thundering heart tells her to keep going towards the room she’s put as inconspicuously close to her own as she can manage. She must be close. Even before they were married she had always seemed to know when he was nearby in Winterfell. She had once attributed it to Brienne and their friendship in an attempt to deny what it was.

Brienne.

They’ll have to find her too, help anyway they can.

There’s a reason they’ve been sent to do this – together.

Sansa only takes a second to hesitate once she’s outside his door, but it’s over before she can take her next breath. She closes her hand into a fist and raps an old teasing melody on his door before she lets herself in and quickly closes the door behind her.

They can’t get caught like this, she has no great tale or explanation at the ready in case they do. But the reward far outweighs the risk, especially when he’s right there. In front of her, looking younger and healthier than she really remembers.

“I can help with that, _Ser_.”

 

**_j a i m e:_ **

The door opens and he whirls to see her, because he _knows_ its her and—

Despite all his clunky armor in the way, he’s there in a moment, pulling her close. Everything about her is softer, sweeter than he remembers, but then, there was no time for softness when fighting the dead. His heart is racing in his chest when he presses his lips to her forehead, his hands probably too tight in her hair.

“You’re here,” he whispers, “it’s you, tell me it’s really you, my love, my wife.” And he knows it’s her, there’s no way it can’t be, but he needs to hear her say it anyway.

All of a sudden, seventeen years of ache washes through him again, and he pulls her backward by her hands because he needs to sit down, but if he lets her go, surely she will disappear. So he sits, clunky armor and all, and just holds her hands, trying to breathe, trying not to sob in relief, in pain, in this strange amalgamation of two lifetimes of fear and worry and love and joy.

“Please, Sansa, please, tell me again. Tell me it’s you.”

 

**_S a n s a:_ **

She doesn’t even have a moment to really take him in before Jaime’s too close, and she’s against the breastplate of his armor. “ _Jaime_.” Sansa does that thing where she’s laughing without really laughing, but there’s no sense in propriety here either. She is his, as he is hers even still. Whatever has happened since they last woke in each other’s arms on the fringes of an army camp outside King’s Landing has not changed that.

There’s a sort of desperation to his touch, and her mind whirls as she tries to catch up. She finds that she holds on as tightly as she can manage in this grip, her eyes closing for just a second – and she gives them both the moment that they need. “I’m here. It’s me, _husband_.”

Had he really been this much taller than her the first time around? There’s no burying her face in the crook of his neck now, and perhaps it would be funnier if it wasn’t so frustrating. She’s a girl again, a young girl of ten and three, and she can no longer speak with the authority she once had. Only in this room, she thinks, were Jaime knows her – knows who she is and what she remembers.

Her hands squeeze his as she studies his features carefully, trying to understand. One hand gently twists out of his grasp to rest on his cheek – his smooth cheek, and the corners of Sansa’s mouth twitch upwards at the sensation. “Oh, love.”

Jaime looks as if he can let go of this great weight on his shoulders and it’s only then that she thinks she’s beginning to understand. Joffrey isn’t the Joffrey she remembers, because something has changed prior to his conception. Her husband needs clarification because he’s been alone for longer than just a few weeks.

 _How long have you been here?_ She wants to ask, but there’s no reason. If he’s no longer Joffrey’s father, like she suspects, it’s longer than she’s been alive, at least as of present.

“I’m here now, Jaime.”

 

**_j a i m e:_ **

_Husband._ Maybe it’s her words, or even just her voice, maybe the emotion he can so clearly hear in it. Whatever it is, it wrenches a harsh sob from his throat, drops his head to her collarbone and breathes her in.

He just needs a moment, needs to let himself break apart for the first time since he died, since _she_ died and he lost her and he never knew if he would get her back. She doesn’t smell the same, not really, but even so, there is something in her scent that is _her_.

Her hands comes and lifts his face back to hers and he nods, squeezes the hand on his cheek. “Okay, okay,” he murmurs, letting her strength pull him back together once more. And then he smiles at her.

“You haven’t aged a day, my love,” he murmurs wryly, tracing a thumb over her cheekbone. “Perhaps to my detriment.” He can’t keep his amusement out of his voice. It’s so odd to see her bright, cunning eyes shining out of the face of one so young. He tries to recall the young girl from his first visit to Winterfell, but she’s little more than a fuzzy blur in the shape of the girl in front of him. He remembers Cersei mocking her for a starry-eyed fool, remembers hearing Joff brag about how she followed him around, but he has no memories beyond that, no impressions. Had she truly been so _young?_

“How long have you been back? I have so much to tell you, Sansa.” He laughs, a little watery. “I’ve...done my best, but I’m afraid I don’t have quite your touch for politicking.”

 

**_S a n s a:_ **

He’s been here as long as she suspects, maybe even longer. And her chest constricts tightly as Sansa holds onto him in a way that she doesn’t think she’d be able to at her current height if he’d been standing. She knows how lost she had been only weeks ago, the confusion and wondering if it would last. If it were real, and then the sinking feeling of was he here too? Was he missing? Had she traded him for her family somehow?

The relief that she hadn’t is immediate. This isn’t the Jaime Lannister who had arrived at Winterfell itching for a chance alone with Cersei. He’s worlds away from that man, and has a lifetime of memories at his disposal, including their life. Together.

It wouldn’t be proper, especially not now, but Sansa can’t deny that it’s strange sleeping alone in her bed now.

She answers his smile with one of her own, a special sort of smile that had been reserved for her family – him, and she nods encouragingly. Whatever this is, whatever plans they must figure out they’ll do so. Together.

“Perhaps,” Sansa laughs, leaning into his touch. It’s difficult, to reconcile who she was – who she is – with the young girl she is supposed to be now. “I feel silly, Jaime,” she finally admits, softly.  “We all made such stupid, foolish decisions the first time around, and now when I know how to help them...I’m a child again.”

Only this time, she won’t be that same stupid, foolish little girl. And if she can help it, she won’t let her family lose their heads for their mistakes. Or hers.

“Slow down, love.” Sansa ducks down to press her own kiss to the top of his head. It’s all she can manage, and she’s sure it looks utterly ridiculous. “Shortly before you sent Jon back North. He does nothing but sing your praises, you know.” She brushes back his hair as if it’s second nature. And in a way, it is.

“You’re great with strategy,” she insists, defending her husband even against himself. “I want to hear everything, all of it Jaime, but I don’t know how much time we’ll have before it’s suspicious. We have so much to figure out.” And only...roughly eight years to do it. “You’ve been busy.”

 

**_j a i m e:_ **

“In body only, my love.” He too, had had trouble adjusting to a body that had full use of both hands. Returning back to his peak physical fitness had been jarring in and of itself—he hadn’t realized just how old he had gotten in the last body, but the lack of the daily aches and pains that had hounded him for years was almost as shocking as holding a sword in his right hand again. “Your mind, I have no doubt, is as sharp as ever, perhaps more so, without the hunger pains holding you back, let alone the sole responsibility for feeding thousands of people in the depths of winter.” His hands wander, not in any sort of carnal fashion, just mapping the line of her arms, the knobby elbows and wrists so thin he fears he could break them if he squeezed too tight. As if his hands can’t quite believe she is real, and that they can touch her again after so long.

In fact, his right hand had never had the pleasure in the last life.

“You might be surprised with what you can get away with by playing dumb,” he advises wryly. “They may underestimate you, but that is not necessarily a bad thing. They will never see you coming.” That had been true even in their first life. Even at the end, Cersei believed Sansa to be a half-wit, who had coasted by on, by turn, either malicious treachery or fawnish stupidity, depending on the day.

 _Moons._ She’s only been back for a few moons. The knowledge steals his breath a moment. There’s a bitterness there, not at her, per se, but at the gods, at whoever sent her to a few moons before they would meet, and sent him decades in the past, a whole lifetime before he would get to see her again. It hurts to think about, and so he doesn’t, chooses instead to think upon his squire.

The boy had been wasted on the North, and it hadn’t taken a fortnight for Jon to blossom under the attention of a good instructor, and caring mentor. Jaime hadn’t been close to Jon in his last life, but it has been nice to get to know Jon as a boy, watch him grow to be a man. As King in the North, Jon had stumbled and faltered time and again. Over the course of the boy’s term as his squire, however, Jaime had learned that he _likes_ Jon Snow, bastard of Winterfell.

He had had little and less respect for the man who had knelt for Daenerys Targaryen, let alone comaraderie, but this time he hopes they can be friends.

“Don’t ever tell him I said so, but I believe he is a better swordsman than I was at his age. It has been…” he pauses, tries to put words to the feeling. “... _fun_ to experience him without the weight of kingdoms and a war on his shoulders. Somehow, I assumed he’d be less gloomy, but I suppose a boy sired by Rhaegar and raised by Ned Stark had little hope.”

She mentions time, and he sighs, another wry smile lighting his lips. “Yes, because you require _chaperones_ these days,” he points out with amusement. “That will be a problem. We should think of an excuse, perhaps you could spark a friendship with Tyrion. We may need him as a go-between before long.”

He’s not ready to go yet, needs at least seventeen years to hold her close to make up for the last seventeen years of her absence. But there’s nothing for it. “Tonight, can you make it to the godswood without being seen? We will speak of it there.”

 

**_S a n s a:_ **

In body only. It’s hard to swallow the laugh, and Sansa barely manages to mask it with a shake of her head and smile. Perhaps, but to everyone but them that’s all that will be seen.  She supposes there’s a benefit too. With her mind, there’s no chance of making the same girlish mistakes this time. She harbors no desire to move to King’s Landing to have Joffrey’s babies. Her thought manages to make her laugh again, but she’s quickly sobered by the memories of the hunger, of the fear of trying to ensure that the North survives. “Hunger causes riots, Jaime.” She’d seen so back in the Capital. “It was the last thing we all needed.”

If she can manage to avoid King’s Landing, Cersei Lannister’s games, this go around she’ll be more than happy. But it’s a dream of a thought. If they want to make any meaningful change, if they want to be better prepared for the wars to come there must be _stability_.

“Or parroting back what you know people want to hear.” Sansa had promised herself she would never have to live like that again – pretending to be anyone other than who she was. The game is never over, and despite the frustration at least she’s not so very alone this time. At least she will be able to anticipate better, and _know_. And she has her husband.

Jon. She’s trying to make up for how awful she had been to him as a child the last time around, and what she suspects she was still doing until she had come back to this timeline. She is trying to forgive him. It doesn’t fix everything, but it’s a start. “Hey,” there’s nowhere to pinch him, not when he’s still inside all of that armor, so Sansa settles for tugging gently on his ear. “I was raised by Ned Stark too.”

She smiles. “He has gotten better though, hasn’t he? He and Robb spar almost daily, and Arya is itching for her turn.”

They are running out of time though. It’s only a matter of time before her siblings realize she’s been gone longer than necessary, and she still needs to stop by her room to grab something – anything – to prove her point of needing something to make the day perfect. “We will,” Sansa squeezes his hand in a promise.

It’s hard to let go, but she has a feeling that if she doesn’t they’ll never leave the room. For the first time in what she remembers, Sansa hesitates. Her hands squeeze his and she leans forward to press another kiss to his forehead. “I’ll find you. I love you, Jaime,” it’s whispered against his skin before she slips out of the room.


	2. Chapter 2

**_j a i m e:_ **

The Godswood. 

He hasn’t been in a Godswood in this life yet, not a true, Northern Godswood. He had taken up the habit of walking through the godswood in the Red Keep when he needed to focus his memories, to try and remember Sansa’s maneuvers and tricks, to figure out how she’d apply them in his situation. It made him feel closer to her, but there had been no  _ weight _ to the air in that wood. 

_ It’s true, _ he thinks.  _ Sansa’s Gods do not reach that far South. _

He wondered for a long time if he had imagined the sense of presence he had felt in these woods, but now he knows it is as real as it ever was. As real as it had felt the night they married.

He stands in the very spot, stares at the space he’s been saving for his wife for nearly two decades. The Gods bore witness the first time around, and he wonders if it stills counts. Are they still married if it hasn’t happened yet? It’s a ridiculous question, because the answer won’t change anything for him. The vows he said in this very spot are the only vows he’s never been tempted to break, never had to double question.  _ I am hers, and she is mine, this day to the end of my days.  _ His days haven’t ended yet. At least, not in a way that’s stuck. 

He hears a stick break in the darkness before him and he grins. If it’s not her, he’ll look like an arse, but he cannot help himself. “Who comes before the Old Gods this night?”

 

**_S a n s a:_ **

She spends the rest of the night waiting for the opportunity to sneak away again. But there are certain motions that need to be made, and the welcoming feast is one of them. Had she really been so focused on gaining Cersei’s favor? On getting Joffrey’s attention, and worrying that he wouldn’t find her  _ pretty _ enough? It feels so long ago, and she makes the polite conversation that she’s expected to, without falling at the Queen’s feet.

If Sansa notices the look her mother is sending her, she makes no sign of it and instead takes her place back at her table with her siblings, and lets them distract her until it’s time.

This go around, when Arya’s food smacks her in the face Sansa gasps loudly, and then – when no one is looking, she does have a reputation to maintain – launches a bit back at her sister.

The laughter is uproarious from the Stark children, and heads turn, and even Sansa can’t hide her smile. It’s hard to qualify how much she’s missed this,  _ them _ . Nothing will take away the memories she has stored away, but this...Maybe it’s a start.

Sneaking out of her room proves to be a different sort of challenge. She’s never quite managed Arya’s level of stealth. Sansa leaves Lady in her room, both to make herself less noticeable, but out of a determination to keep the direwolf, and all the wolves, out of the Royal Court’s line of sight. It may be partially selfish, and insignificant to some, but it’s an innocent life she can save.

The Godswood is quiet, and her appearance in it should be less shocking than it had in the prior weeks when she had come back. It’s a balancing act now, not to offend her Lady Mother, but the comfort the Old Gods bring her is undeniable.

There’s also so many memories – memories with Jaime, and she can’t help the smile when the stick cracks and alerts the knight he’s no longer alone.

“Sansa, of the House Stark, comes to be wed,” She echoes Jon’s words softly, his voice which has replaced Theon’s from her wedding to Ramsay Bolton. It’s only when she catches his gaze that she crosses the remaining distance between them. “I thought the feast would never end.”

 

**_j a i m e:_ **

It’s still disconcerting to expect his  _ grown, adult _ wife to step out of the darkness and find a girl in her place. It will take some getting used to, he supposes, but it is far from the most difficult task the gods have ever burdened him with. 

He takes her hand as soon as she is in reach and carefully maneuvers her into position. He has no intentions of marrying her on this night—sees no reason for it, as their original vows still stand—but it settles something inside him to see her here, helps him overlay their last life onto this one.  _ It is her, she is here, she is mine, and I am hers.  _

“I’m afraid I cannot be convinced to give you away,” he says with a whisper, referring to the next part of the ritual. “Not ever again, my love.”

He has a slightly better handle on himself this time around, though he can feel how easy it would be to let everything overwhelm him once more. Still, he needs her to  _ know _ . In this life, he has only ever been hers. 

He sits on a protruding root, the same he had always picked before, and though he longs to pull her into the vee of his legs, let her rest her back against his chest, he knows such a thing would be folly in this time. The knowledge does little to ease the ache, though. Perhaps that is why he refuses to relinquish her hand.

“I hardly know where to start, Sansa,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over the back of her hand. “It has been…”  _ agonizing, terribly lonely, heart-wrenching, terrifying,  _ “...a very long time, for me.”

 

**_S a n s a:_ **

There had been moments, stolen moments, when they could take a small amount of time to themselves. But back then there hadn’t been much outside of the end of Westeros as they knew it. The Night King, winter, trying to feed armies and  _ dragons.  _ Sansa isn’t sure she remembers her husband being so  _ romantic _ .

Not that he wasn’t more than capable of making her weak in the knees to begin with.

She takes her place gracefully, easily...eagerly. It’s one of her fondest memories, though this time she feels shorter than ever standing in front of him before the weirwood heart tree. Sansa reaches out with her free hand to grip his other – his right hand – and she’s momentarily stunned by the flesh she feels there.

It makes sense, but she hadn’t thought about it. Just as she’s young again, so he is. Sansa should fight the urge, but finds that she can’t, and she lifts his hand to press a soft kiss to the back of it.

“Luckily enough for both of us, you don’t have to.” It doesn’t matter how they renew their vows in this life, but Sansa has every intention of ensuring that they do. Whether it’s in front of their families, or a private ceremony makes no difference to her. She is still his wife before the Old Gods and New, and this – whatever this is – hasn’t changed that fact. “I am yours, Jaime. Until the end of my days.”

Sansa steps forward with him when he moves, unwilling to put even more distance between them. There’s so much she wants to hear, so many questions to ask, but she keeps quiet and gives Jaime the time he needs. She’ll let him take the lead on this one.

“I know,” she finally says softly, moving to sit next to him on the root. It’s not her usual spot, but it’s as close as she can get to him for now. So, she threads her fingers with his and rests against his side. “Joffrey...he isn’t.” She can’t say any more than that without committing the treason (paired with her stupidity) that had got her father killed the first time. He may not be Robert Baratheon’s trueborn son, but with Jaime confirming that it’s been longer than a few moons – she feels safe confirming her own suspicions.

She can’t take any of that away, can’t carry this burden for him. “I’ve missed you,” is what she says instead.

 

**_j a i m e:_ **

“And I’m yours,” he promises, as she kisses his hand—his  _ right hand _ —and he feels a chasm inside him start to stitch closed. They have a chance to make each other whole again, to be hale and healthy and  _ together _ in a way they’d never had the chance before. Before, they were pieces of people doing their best to bridge all the gaps and tears and holes inside without falling apart. This thing that happened to them, this second chance, where before it had seemed a cure, all of a sudden it is such a gift, no matter how long he had to wait for it.

“No, he isn’t mine,” Jaime says, watching their hands instead of meeting her gaze. Even now, even when it has been so long that his memories have started to blur, it is still hard for him to talk about his relationship with his sister, especially with Sansa. Of everyone Cersei has hurt in both lifetimes, perhaps only Tyrion can say he has suffered more. And he doesn’t love his sister anymore, not even as family—hasn’t in decades—but he remembers what it felt like, remembers holding her as she cried when she lost her first babe, the way her skin purpled under Robert’s fist. He doesn’t love her anymore, he  _ hates _ her for what she had become, but she will always be human to him. He will always be the only person alive who can see Cersei as anything more than a cruel, grasping fool. “I believe he is my Uncle Tygett’s,” Jaime says, acknowledging even to himself that fact for the first time. “This version is not quite as mad as the last but Cersei’s parenting has not improved, and he is still a cruel and capricious child. I believe she awarded Uncle Tyg Lord Commandership if the City Guard not long after her marriage.”  _ After I refused her, after I threatened to tell our father. _

There is no emotion in his voice, because this doesn’t evoke any emotion in him. There will always be a pang of sadness when he thinks of his twin, but it is for the eight year old child who lost her mother too soon, for the eighteen year old woman who thought for two hours she could have a happy marriage, for the mother who screamed as her eldest child died in her arms. He knows what Cersei will become, though, and he knows what she has done and will do again if she has the chance. She will die and if he has to do it with his own blade to keep harm from coming to Sansa, well…

He’s done it before. 

His laugh is a bitter, pained sound, but he smiles at Sansa anyway. “Yes, I missed you, too. More than you will ever know, I hope.” Gods willing, she will see many summers after he dies, but perhaps naively, he hopes for a peaceful death, to die an old man in their marriage bed, happy with the life they’ve had together. He thinks that wouldn’t be too painful for her, but he also knows for all the Gods have given them this chance, they are by no definition kind. Any time they have together will be lucky, indeed. 

He sighs and squeezes her hand. That’s another odd thing, these comforting touches that they both know without saying cannot escalate into anything more. “Robert will try to betrothe you to Joffrey again,” he says quietly, though he knows she is aware. It is the first of many things they will need to change. Bran will not fall this time, either. It is not quite a debt repaid, but it is as close as he will ever get, he supposes.

 

**_S a n s a:_ **

It’s a conversation Sansa has never known how to have with her husband. They had worked through things in the time they had been together, but in that time...There wasn’t much that mattered in the end. What they were fighting for, what they meant to each other. The past had been let go as much as it possibly could have been, and the sentiment still remains. She’s not fool enough to pretend that whatever it was Jaime had with Cersei no longer exists simply because they are married.

Even now, in whatever this second chance is – if it was even that, and less of just trying to get the outcome right this time – if they had finished being whatever they were years before...Sansa finds herself incapable of objecting or begrudging him his grief. There is relief too, that he is no longer tied to the monster she had once known, but that monster no longer exists. “There’s a lot to come to terms with, Jaime.” The fact that it’s said gently, doesn’t make it any less true. Already she’s made slight adjustments that can cause the biggest ripples. And she doesn’t know all of the choices he’s made, all of the changes. Joffrey not being his son is a large deviation – as is her Aunt’s death instead of Jon Arryn’s.

That’s another question she must ask. But not now. Not when she can hear the bitterness that coats her husband’s tongue. Sansa longs to pull him close, to lock them in the very room of the keep they had once had and hide underneath the furs with him. To comfort him, to love him – Well. She supposes there’s nothing stopping her from doing so now, it’ll just be in a very different way. “I can’t pretend to understand why,” she reaches up to cup his face again, her thumb stroking the smooth skin of his jawline. “I don’t know why you were sent so far, but I’m here now. And I intend to do anything I can to make sure we don’t have to be apart for any longer than what is necessary.”

If anyone asks her, no time apart is  _ necessary _ , but her age demands something else entirely.

Sansa can’t help it – she laughs. “I’m sure. But I have no intention of being betrothed to Joffrey Baratheon again.” She doesn’t think her father is as keen on the match either, and without her strongly pushing for it, maybe things will change. “I have one husband, Jaime.” Despite the fact that there had been two other before him, both had been easily annulled. “The next time I get married, it will be to you. Only you.”

Her thumb touches the corner of his lips, as close as she dares.

“Tell me about Jon Arryn?”  _ And my Aunt. _

 

**_j a i m e:_ **

Jaime knows why. “I can only assume I was supposed to prevent the War of Five Kings,” he speculates, fat lot of good it did them. “Of course, I also assumed Cersei’s predilection for incest was situational. Silly me.” Even Lancel he’d been able to explain away as a result of his absence. No, Cersei has a type, and he was merely the most accessible of them. Luckily for her, House Lannister has no lack of sons. 

It’s silly to be bitter about his sister though when his wife is here, close enough to touch, after longer than her lifetime away from her. He grins at her, letting Cersei’s ghost go. “I’m glad I won’t have to fight Tyrion for the title in this life,” he japes, though it’s no jape at all. The first time Tyrion had referred to her as his sister-wife, Jaime had almost choked on his wine. Amusing though it was, it had edged a little too close to certain truths Jaime had been in no way ready to confront. He turns his head just slightly to press a kiss to the pad of her thumb. They are the kind of touches he needs to start resisting, but he cannot just yet. Tomorrow, he will do better. 

“The Lady Lysa, yes,” he breathes out, nervous all of a sudden. He killed her aunt, and he did it for her as much as Tyrion, but she had committed none of the crimes he judged her guilty of, not in this life. Not yet, anyway. He has no way of knowing where Sansa will draw the line. He is not interested in philosophical conversations about justice and guilt and honor. He killed her, with her own poison no less, and he is not sorry, and he will do it again when the next person needs to die. 

But he doesn’t want to see disappointment in his wife’s eyes. 

“I switched her wine goblet with Jon Arryn’s every night for a sennight. I didn’t know if she had poisoned the goblet or the wine, so I gambled on the goblet. I got lucky.” He sighs. He doesn’t want to apologize for it, but he supposes this makes him a kinslayer. Again. “I tried to think of another way, but the madness was already showing. She started this all last time, even if it was Baelish pulling the strings. He never would’ve been able to accomplish so much without the access to power she granted him. We need Jon Arryn, and she would’ve killed him one way or another.” 

 

**_S a n s a:_ **

The War of the Five Kings. There’s a brief flash of the cruel spectacle Joffrey had insisted upon at his wedding, and Sansa swallows harshly. It’s a different lifetime, and if it’s to be prevented then there’s no reason to let the memory twist its sword into an old wound. “I’m sorry, love,” Sansa whispers instead, because for all of his insistence, for all the ways he lets his bitterness cover it up, there’s a hurt there too. He had loved her once, fiercely, and in turn she baited when he was needed.

“I’m glad too. I think my good-brother enjoyed poking fun where he could.” They had all needed something lighthearted to focus on up in Winterfell, and Tyrion had never once been cruel to her. “Just us this time.” It’s a soft promise, one he hasn’t even asked for, but one Sansa gives all the same. “Though I suppose if you win the Tourney that I’ve heard all about since I got here I’ll have to secretly give you my favor.” It’s her own jape, that’s not really a jape as well. Ten and three. Her age leaves her with minimal options.

For now.

She smiles at the ghost of a kiss that brushes against her thumb. If they had been in Winterfell – their Winterfell she supposes – it would have invited something else entirely.

Instead Sansa gives him a smile, and her other hand squeezes the one that’s still clutched in his tightly.

“Aunt Lysa, yes.” Sansa isn’t sure she can blame him any even before she hears any sort of explanation. She remembers what her Aunt had caused while under the control of Baelish. Another person who will need to be dealt with accordingly. The death of Jon Arryn had caused much of everything to start the last time around, and with her Aunt no longer capable of being manipulated...Well, Baelish will never become Lord Protector of the Vale. She won’t be threatened with a moon door – the war between their families...

There may have been a way to redeem her, but they’re beyond that now.

A part of Sansa, the part of her that had been weathered into steel thanks to her time in Cersei’s court – knows that Littlefinger would’ve found a way.

“Or you figured out the more likely choice and went with that,” she points out easily, turning on the root she’s seated on to face him more fully. Her hand squeezes his again. “I’m not sure I would’ve done anything differently.” The confession seems cruel, especially in this sacred place, but it won’t be the last difficult choice they’re tasked with. Better to move forward now that not a thing can be done about it.

But they have to anticipate what’s coming next, and already Sansa’s thoughts are spiraling in different directions, trying to work through any angle.

“What does Lord Arryn say? He didn’t arrive with the Royal party.”

 

**_j a i m e:_ **

Jaime felt his lips curl at the offer of her favor, and he took a lock of her hair between his fingers. Myrcella had once offered him her favor—in the same tourney, actually, both lives—but Cersei had forbidden it, for different reasons, both times. There were maidens here and there who had offered theirs, swooning over the Golden Lion of Lannister, but he didn’t remember their faces, let alone their names. 

“I’d wear your favor with pride, my lady, if also with discretion.” Wouldn’t dear old Ned just love that. Still, the thought warms him. Perhaps having a ten-and-three year old wife isn’t the worst thing that’s happened to them. They had no time for innocence and courting in their last life. No time for tourneys and favors, Queens of Love and Beauty. There is a sweetness to the idea of it that he finds himself cherishing. 

And he’s surprised to find that that sweetness lingers even when their topic turns more gruesome, though recalling how their previous lives ended, perhaps he shouldn’t be. He’d hoped she’d understand, had even dared to contemplate the fact that she would likely have done something similar in his stead, but that hadn’t prevented the dread from building. He had murdered her aunt. Her confirmation that his instincts had been right lifts a weight from his shoulders, and he brings her fingers back to his lips to press a kiss there. 

“As far as I know, he suspects the poison was meant for him. And he’s not  _ wrong.  _ I wouldn’t be surprised if he suspected Cersei. There is no love lost between them, and he’s started his investigations into Robert’s bastards.” He’d been conflicted on that regard. He has no more love for the King in this life than he had in the last, but Gendry had fought beside them, back to back with Arya. He was a good man. Jaime could likely save all the bastards from Cersei’s murderous spree, but he’d stayed his hand until Sansa could advise him. There is much they  _ can _ do, but the real question is what they  _ should _ do. 

“He’s in the Vale now, perhaps for the next few moons, getting his affairs in order. I suspect if no one intervenes, Jon Arryn will speak of his suspicions to Robert soon, when he returns to the capital, I’d wager. I’m also guessing that’s why he encouraged Robert to journey to Winterfell. He intends your father to go South. Perhaps as a fallback should the next assassin succeed where he fails? Assistance in the investigation? I know not. But… I’m not sure we can keep Lord Stark in the North.” And it’s true, he’s thought it from every angle, as much as he is able. There is little Jaime can do to persuade the Warden of the North to heed his warnings, and he doubts Ned Stark will heed his daughter’s pleas much easier. 

His own selfish heart is glad for it. For when Ned Stark goes South, his daughter will follow. Jaime is not ready to be parted from her just yet. If he has to personally smuggle Lord Stark out through the bowels of the Red Keep to prevent his murder, well, at least he has experience to draw on this time.

 

**_s a n s a:_ **

There had been little to enjoy towards the very end, and even less to celebrate. The gore of the tourney, this tourney, had shocked her the first time around, but now Sansa wonders if there’s anything left in Westeros that will ever really shock her again. And the teasing smiles and looks that come through a courtship could be fun, even if they’re with her  _ husband. _

Especially because they’re with him.

“I suppose you’re right,” her tone is light, teasing. She can’t imagine the rumors that would surface from Jaime boldly displaying her favor. It may make a statement Sansa fully intends on making with or without her family’s support – but she knows things will go easier for them if they go through the proper channels. Or, alternatively, sway those channels. “We’ll be discreet.” The _ for now _ goes unsaid, but remains a promise.

It will be hard, she thinks as she watches him press a kiss to her fingers, to not be able to go to him when she wants.

“And I’m sure Littlefinger was clever enough to make sure that with my Aunt’s death there was nothing that can be tied to him whatsoever.” It’s hard to keep the disdain from her voice, and Sansa doesn’t try. Not when it’s just Jaime and herself in the Godswood. He and Brienne had become the two she had confided in the most apart from her family before she had woken up in this time. Besides, her husband’s gotten quite skilled in deciphering her tells anyway.

Selfishly, she’s glad that it will be Jon Arryn carrying that burden instead of her father. But that doesn’t change the outcome of the Starks marching South when the call comes – and with no talk of the Night’s Watch, Jon will likely be coming too. She has to fight the childish urge to insist that she won’t go – that she has no intention of ever setting another foot in King’s Landing as long as she lives. Instead, Sansa watches him with the same cool composure she had held as Lady of Winterfell.

She will not let Cersei Lannister, or Joffrey Baratheon, lay so much as a finger on her family. Not this time.

“I don’t know if that will change much of anything if the Lord Hand is insistent,” Sansa adds, once she’s sure her voice can be compelled to be as composed as her expression. Cersei will do anything to ensure the legitimacy of the children – maybe even in spite of their very real illegitimacy. And if Jon Arryn can sway his good friend Ned Stark –

Sansa clenches her teeth.

“We need stability, Jaime. Jon was right – it won’t matter who sits on the Iron Throne when the dead come this time, let alone the Great War.” Her lips quirk in an un-amused smile. “Winter is coming.”

 

**_j a i m e:_ **

“Of course. Fortunately enough for me. It would hardly do for the Gods to send me back all this way only for me to be charged with treason moons before I get to see my wife again. But yes, Littlefinger remains as slippery and slimy as he’s ever been. He’s also distressingly good at covering his tracks. I had hoped to remove him before now, but there was no opportunity…” 

His dislike for Petyr Baelish can hardly hold a candle to the fury and hatred that has always spilled across Sansa’s face whenever he had come up in conversation. It was discreet enough that few others could see it for what it was, but it had ever been clear as day to him. He remembers it even now, after so many years. And knowing what he had done to her, all the things he had  _ wanted _ from her, it’s hard not to share the sentiment. 

“I suspect there is little that will sway him from divesting my sister and father of their power. Not that I blame him.” In fact, Jaime had debated through the years sabotaging his own family, just to prevent the horrors they’d wreak in the future. 

Her bitter smile evokes a sad one of his own. “We have time, wife. I will not let your father die in King’s Landing. Bran will never fall from the tower, there will be no catspaw to frame Tyrion. We have  _ time _ , and we will make sure Westeros is much better prepared for the war with the dead, and… and  _ after... _ this time around. We’ve already begun, haven’t we? Last time we did not have the knowledge we do now, nor did we have the ferocious Red Wolf of Winterfell paving our path for us.” He stands, and tugs on her arm to pull her up to him, intending, well, he doesn’t know what because his options are fairly limited at the moment, but—

The hair on the back of his neck raises, sending goosepimples raising across his skin, the way they always had before the dead would shamble their way out of the darkness. It’s muscle memory more than anything else that has him drawing his sword and sweeping Sansa behind him.  _ It’s too early, the Wall hadn’t fallen for years in their last life, how have they come already, there’s no time, they were supposed to have time— _

“What are you— Seven hells, Sansa! You snuck out to see the  _ Kingslayer?!”  _

 

**_s a n s a:_ **

Sansa doesn’t laugh, but blows out a small breath.  “I would much prefer you to not be charged with treason at all, Jaime.” The rumors still exist, as does the ridiculous epithet. Joffrey and his siblings may not be his biological children now, but the fact that their appearances are completely devoid of any Baratheon traits has not gone unnoticed. And if Jon Arryn points his finger in the wrong direction, if  _ Littlefinger _ seizes the opportunity—

It won’t come to that. It would take a lot for Petyr Baelish to take on the Lannisters at their strongest, with no real leverage. Tywin is still alive, she has to remind herself, and there is nothing he won’t do to protect his eldest children.

Tyrion. So focused on finding Jaime again, on connecting with her husband, she hadn’t even thought to ask how he is. Hopefully better than the last time she had seen him, though she supposes it’s all relative. Here his lord father is still living, and he is no longer Hand to the Queen. She doesn’t remember much of her good-brother prior to their interactions in King’s Landing – their short-lived marriage which had ended with her fleeing while he went on trial for killing her now husband’s son.

Maybe Tyrion has the right of it—finding the humor in it all certainly makes it all the more palatable.

“He will wait for his most opportune moment.” There’s no hesitation, not when it comes to this particular snake. Sansa has not forgotten a single lesson he taught her. “It may be in our best interest to play along and let him think he’s winning, or getting exactly what he wants.” Up until the very last second, so he has no time to notice the noose that’s been fastened around his slippery neck.

She has so many questions. If Bran doesn’t endure the fate of becoming the three-eyed raven will someone else? Does it matter? Bran deserves his life, he deserves to be  _ Bran Stark _ . And she believes Jaime, believes with her whole heart that her husband intends to do whatever he can to make sure that the people they love, the people she loves, will not suffer the same fate.

The nightmares still haunt her though and she can still see her father’s head on the Traitor’s walk, and can still hear Joffrey’s promise of sending her Robb’s head as a wedding gift.

“I told myself I would  _ never _ go back there, Jaime. Not even if it was the last stronghold in all of Westeros.”

Can the Red Wolf of Winterfell exist within the walls of the Red Keep? Just the thought of seeing other members of the Kingsguard-

She trusts Jaime.

It’s why she so easily moves when he pulls. And she’s ready to bury her face in the warm comfort that his chest offers only he tenses. His reflexes are quicker, more immediate, and it takes all of her effort to not trip over a root in the process. Her heart rate accelerates, the memories of the battle against the dead chill her to the bone only for her to hide her grimace, and discreetly rest her hand on her beloved’s back before she peaks around to give her sister a characteristic eye roll.

“Don’t be silly.”  _ Of course I did.  _ “I needed to think, and it’s always quiet and comforting here. I happened to run into  _ Ser Jaime _ ,” she corrects easily, pointedly, “on my way. Ser Jaime, you’ve met my sister Lady Arya.” 

 

**_j a i m e:_ **

His mind races, trying to figure out how he can manage this without Sansa in King’s Landing. He’s gotten better at planning ahead—Tyrion’s trick of treating politics like a battlefield is a helpful visual. They’ll have to come up with a way to communicate with each other, some kind of code…

He doesn’t want to be without her, feels his heart begin to pound at the mere thought of it, but he’s been separated from her before. They made it through seventeen years apart, they can make it a little longer. He’ll make do, if that’s what she needs. He remembers her nightmares; there were many, but they all started in King’s Landing. He doesn’t get a chance to reassure her though.

Not before Arya Fucking Stark bursts through the trees. 

“I forgot how tiny she was,” he murmurs under his breath. “And how annoying.” Arya Stark of their last life had been without contest, the greatest swordsman of Westeros, and he’d be hard-pressed to imagine anyone in Essos out-performing her either. She’d also been genuinely terrifying. There’d been more than one person who’d whispered about the Stranger in her wake. Her face had rarely shown any emotion, and what it had shown he’d learned not to believe. She was better at twisting words than his little brother, and could throw a dagger better than Bronn. 

This Arya Stark is...a menace. 

The thought brings a smirk to his face and he sweeps a low bow at her. “Not well enough, I’d say. Ser Jaime Lannister, knight of the Kingsguard and infamous slayer of madmen, at your service, my lady.” He has to bite back his laughter. Arya is stuck somewhere between horror at his show of courtly manners and awe of his irreverence. He really didn’t appreciate the girl well enough his first time around, not when she was but a child and not an assassin. He thinks quickly. There is a way to turn this situation to their advantage, though his wife might gut him for it.

“But I’m afraid you’ve caught your sister in a lie,” he confesses, biting back a smirk as Arya’s eyes widen and a sound of outrage comes from behind him. “You see, she was embarrassed. Couldn’t have anyone knowing, but she just  _ had _ to talk to me in private. She wants us to come to an...arrangement.” He makes it as salacious as he can, because the time for laughter will be behind them soon enough, and both girls are too easily riled. He leans in close to whisper to Arya, who is hanging on his every word, no doubt relishing the opportunity to get her perfect sister in trouble. “She wants me to teach you swordplay.”

Both sisters gasp in unison, and Jaime grins, shrugs. “I said no, of course.”

 

**_s a n s a:_ **

If Arya’s stature is what he focuses on first she can’t imagine what he thought once he saw that his wife was a young girl of ten and three, and Sansa can hardly hide the quiet snort behind him.  But it is a startling difference, to watch Arya now instead of the young woman who she had grown to know back at Winterfell all those years later. There’s an innocence there that no longer existed in their previous life, an innocence that had been robbed from her.

Her sister is the strongest, fiercest person she knows.

Annoying too. But rather than verbally agree, Sansa pinches his side. They have to behave. This isn’t the same Arya Stark that came to acknowledge him as her good-brother, her memories don’t exist as far as Sansa knows. No one seems to know anything of their past lives apart from them – and maybe it’s for the best.

Sansa watches her husband, and fights the urge to lift one eyebrow at his antics. She supposes if she really was a girl of ten and three, and this had happened the first time around she would have likely melted at all of the excitement. A real knight, the Golden Lion of Lannister, with all of the gallantry and charm-

And  _ cheek. _

A strangled noise of protest falls from her lips before she can stop it, and Sansa tries to ignore her sister’s questioning stare. She narrows her eyes, knowing full well that Jaime cannot see her, but she has no idea what he’s up to. There’s no warning, no guess, and while it’s nice to see that her husband is still capable of surprising her, she has no idea what plan he’s come up with.

Arrangement? Seven Hells he’s lost his mind in the seventeen years they’ve been apart. That or he’s grown  _ reckless _ -

Until suddenly she has an idea of where this is heading, and it is too late. Sansa gasps, and while she supposes she ought to school her expression into place if this is to be her great idea it’s clearly not that simple.

The plan has merit – great merit. He’s the famed knight, brilliant with a sword, and at the prime of his skills. As loathe as she is to admit it – in current circumstances – there’s no one who could do a better job outside of the way that Arya had learned the first time. The only other person she trusts is Brienne.

“He was just going to explain his reasoning,” Sansa finally interjects, though she has a feeling she’ll be sorry she asked. She’s never held a sword, not really, there had been no time for her to really learn at Winterfell and before that...well, it isn’t exactly  _ ladylike.  _ Suddenly she doubts that her husband will appreciate that logic.

“Ser Jaime?” She asks, as if she’s saying  _ husband _ instead.

 

**_j a i m e:_ **

He can  _ see _ the incensed arch of her eyebrow, despite the fact that she remains behind him. He has no doubt he’ll pay for this little charade one way or another but he’s a Lannister. They’re no strangers to debts. 

“You want to train me to fight?!” Arya breathes, her eyes flicking back and forth between he and Sansa. “ _ You  _ want me to be trained? By  _ him?  _ Is this a jape?”

He shakes his head, stepping in before the hurts of a past life—for truly, he doubts Sansa has been nearly as cruel to her as she’d once been—ruin this fine, fine moment.

“No jape, my Lady. Truly, she  _ begged _ me to reconsider. Said it had to be me because your father’s master-of-arms wouldn’t keep it a secret and your Lady Mother would never allow it.” The pinch she had gifted him with starts to burn a bit, she always uses her nails, rotten wench. “I myself think there is great utility in arming our women. I am a lazy man at heart, my lady, and I will never suffer to do a job another can do just as well. I wouldn’t have to protect nearly so many innocents if half of them carried their own swords—”

“So you’ll do it? You’ll teach me?”

He shakes his head, sighs forlornly. “If only I could. It would be a tragedy of the first order were I to agree to this, though. I could never stomach granting one sister so much of my attentions while leaving the other bereft.”

Arya gapes at him for a moment, before her scowl twists and a positively evil smirk take ahold of her face. “What do you mean?” She asks hesitantly, though Jaime can see well enough that she guesses at his ends. 

“If your sister wants you to be trained with the sword, it is only fair she receive lessons as well, don’t you think?”

 

**_S a n s a:_ **

_ It is a jape, _ Sansa wants to clarify.  _ Just not on you, Arya _ .

No – her husband has maneuvered this expertly. It makes sense for Arya to be trained properly, and early. Her sister will get herself into trouble on her own no doubt anyway, and she’ll be better prepared sooner on. It’s a better deal than what Sansa could have acquired on her own, but it comes with a price.

So while Jaime explains his story to her sister, Sansa tries to examine every angle to find a way to not only get her sister what she wants – but to fully remove herself from the situation entirely.

A lazy man. This time she does snort, and quickly looks away as to avoid eye contact and pretends that it never happened in the first place.

How many innocents had become soldiers against the dead? How many who had been ill prepared, who had never seen battle let alone against an army who already was no longer living? Maybe they would have stood a chance. Maybe House Umber would have made it back to the keep – and little Ned Umber.

“Pardon?” She echoes her sister, but there’s no real shock – just disbelief. He can’t be  _ serious. _

She should swoon. She should blush, she should do something – anything – that a girl her age would do. His words come off charming, and any young girl wishing her life were a song would be thrilled to have such a knight wanting to spend time with her, as to not leave her...

What had he said?

_ Bereft. _

“Arya-” Sansa tries to interject, to plead with her sister to be reasonable. “I’ll only get in the way-” It’s too late. She can see the look on her sister’s face. The excitement – these two are going to bond in a way this time that Sansa’s certain will give her grief.

The good kind, she thinks.

“It’s..” She trails off.  _ ‘It’s not proper’ _ is what she had been about to say, but she’s not certain that that’s true anymore. Arya had been one of the fiercest, even Jaime had said so at the time. Brienne too. Both ladies, both wielding weapons of their choosing. Folding her arms across her chest, Sansa looks between the two of them and weighs her options. She could call her husband’s bluff and see if he’ll train Arya anyway. He might too, but what would her saying no do to the rocky relationship she’s managed to build and fix between herself and Arya?

“Can’t I just watch?” Sansa bargains, exasperated. 

 

**_j a i m e:_ **

Arya lets out a whoop and Jaime can’t help but grin. Even in his second life he hasn’t had much experience with children, but he knows the Starks are very different from what few children he knows. Myrcella and Tommen are quieter, more gentle children and if Joffrey ever expressed exuberance, it was, in Jaime’s experience, usually an ill tiding.  

He hadn’t paid attention the first time around, but even just after a day, he can tell the Stark children are carefree in a way completely foreign to him. It makes his throat catch, to see where they had started after knowing where they’d end up. No one had made it through the last life unchanged—he’s fairly certain few, if any, had made it through the last life at all—but to be confronted with just how much life had cost these children…

They have another chance, and this time, Jaime will ensure they get to enjoy their childhoods. He only wishes he could grant Sansa the same. 

“Rest assured, Lady Sansa, if I could’ve become a master swordsman by watching alone, I’d never step foot in the yard,” he grins rakishly, placing his hand—his  _ right _ hand—over his heart. “Lazy, remember?” She knows he’s lying, knows that he rarely feels more at ease with himself than when he has sword in hand—either hand in this life, he’s proud to say—but he’s having too much fun to let up now. “I’m afraid it’s the only way.” This though, he speaks directly to her. Because for as lighthearted as this exchange has been, it has a purpose, and despite her distaste, she has to be aware that someday in the future, their entire endeavor may depend on a single well-placed blade. 

“I won’t limit you to swords, though. Bows are not my strong suit, though I am proficient enough to begin your lessons. I would suggest we focus on close range weaponry.”  _ Because I’ll be on the battlefield, but your battles will happen in throne rooms and dark hallways and on raven scrolls. Because I couldn’t protect you in our last life, and no matter how hard I try in this life, all men must die. The only trust I have is in you, and you alone.  _

 

**_s a n s a:_ **

Her sister celebrates and she hasn’t even agreed yet. Has she become some predictable in the past few moons that Arya already knows that she’ll struggle to say no? Or is that because it’s an opportunity to spend more time with an actual knight, much like the ones she had once dreamed about. Sansa supposes that it’s much more recent than it feels, at least in this life, but there’s a sort of simple truth to the assumption too. She just isn’t inclined to share with Arya that is has less to do with the knight and more to do with the man who stands before them, subtly teasing.

She tries to hold fast despite knowing that her sister’s celebration isn’t as premature as she would like it to be. It’s been mere  _ moons _ without her husband and she’s desperate for any time they can manage to steal away. She misses him, she misses them, and there’s a part of their relationship they won’t be able to claim just yet.

Instead of jumping at the bait, the young redhead watches Jaime carefully, not able to stop her eyebrows from raising this time.  _  Liar _ she wants to mouth, but she can’t now. Not when they’re being watched so diligently by someone who’s waiting for the confirmation of something she’s wanted for so long. There’s no way she can say no, and Sansa won’t bother trying to deny that she had been fond of watching her husband train—at the end. There was a certain sort of look in his eye, and suddenly her face flushes and Sansa has to clear her throat in a way that she hopes comes across as natural.

_ I’m afraid it’s the only way. _

This isn’t Ser Jaime Lannister with his witty snark and tongue ready to cut down a nuisance quickly. This is Jaime Lannister, her husband, speaking to his wife. She’s quick enough to realize it, and as much as she wants to avoid the violence, it’s inevitable.

How many times could the knowledge have helped her last time? When the riots started in King’s Landing while the small folk starved, or mayhaps when Littlefinger had gotten just a little too close for comfort?

How many times would the knowledge have gotten her killed faster? The other part of her wars against the logic knowing that being able to wield a dagger against Joffrey when threatened with a crossbow, or attempting to stop the beatings by the Kingsguard would have only made things  _ worse. _

_ Not all weapons come in the form of steel, husband,  _ Sansa thinks, and he knows this. He must know it, for it’s his very twin that had taught her that so long ago.

“Perhaps,” she echoes, finding that if she has no choice in the actual lessons, she finds the idea of the close-range weapon better than any other option. She doubts she would choose poison. It reeks too much of cowardice, and the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword after all.

“I’ll agree to your terms, Ser Jaime,” Sansa finally acquiesces, as if it’s some great hardship. “Rest assured that you will find disciplined students in  _ both _ ,” this time she does give her little sister a small pointed look, “of us.”

 

**_j a i m e:_ **

Her slowly drawled  _ perhaps _ has him smirking, even though he knows both their thoughts have traveled to another time, a darker time. Even so, just from her tone, her just slightly narrowed eyes, he knows he’s in trouble. Whatever price she demands, he’ll gladly pay, though, if only these skills are of use when he cannot be. 

“I’ll be a more disciplined student than  _ you, _ Sansa!” Arya retorts, then quickly reassesses. “I mean, um—” she bites her lip, eyes darting from Sansa to Jaime and back to her sister again. Then, in a burst of movement, Arya launches herself into her sister’s arms.  _ “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” _

Jaime’s eyes soften and he meets Sansa’s over Arya’s shoulder. The sisters were undoubtedly close at the end in their last life, but he knows how much the distance between them in their childhood had pained his wife, how much she hated the necessity of what Arya had had to become to survive. Just seeing her have this moment makes all those years of waiting worth their while. He vows that neither sister will suffer the way they had before. He’s fairly certain no one ever learned the whole truth of what happened to Arya—except Bran, of course—but all the same, he’s certain he can find a way to help her attain the skills she had in her last life—or, most of them, anyway. She’ll need them. 

He coughs gently, biting back his grin as Arya tries to hide the affection that had bubbled out of her for her sister as she remembers the Kingslayer’s presence. “Lovely. Well, no time like the present. Which of you is better suited to stealing us some tourney swords to begin our practice?” 

Arya’s grin is positively frightening and she sprints off into the darkness, leaving him alone with his wife. “You understand why, don’t you?” He asks, moving to her and taking her hands in his own. “And besides, Arya deserves the best. I  _ am  _ the best,” he admits, eyes sparkling. “And it’ll give us cause to spend time together, and an excuse if anyone catches us.” The words fall from his lips, and it’s been two lifetimes, but their familiarity strikes him all the same. He’s always hated having to hide his affection, and he’s just realizing now they face years of clandestine moments and surprised emotions. His stomach clenches but he tries not to let the bitterness show. He doesn’t have anymore faith in his self-control now than he did in his youth—his  _ first _ youth—but Sansa is not Cersei, and has no desire to manipulate him into doing her bidding. As long as self-control is what is prudent, he trusts that is the only thing Sansa will demand of him. 

“We can find a way to keep you in Winterfell, you know,” he murmurs softly, thumb stroking her hand again. Her skin is soft, not broken by chill and hard work as it had been last time. He remembers how her delicate skin had cracked over her knuckles, how he’d rub oat paste on her hands in the morning, taking his time to gently soothe the paste into her skin, and just as slowly smooth it away in a bowl of tepid water. “We can figure it out, send ravens, messengers…”

 

**_S a n s a:_ **

The hug  _ shocks  _ her. It’s not as if she hasn’t hugged her sister before, Seven Hells – she must’ve held on to her little sister something fierce that day she had finally come home after so many years. But there’s something different about this hug, there’s less weight to it while still managing to be just as meaningful at the same time.

Arya hasn’t seen the many faces of death yet, and if there’s any way to keep her somewhat safe, Sansa hopes—fiercely hopes, and may even begin to pray once again—that the violence doesn’t come the same way.

Her arms wrap around Arya securely in a tight hug, and for a moment Sansa has to blink back tears as she nods atop her sister’s head. “If you’re going to insist on sneaking into dangerous alleyways and finding who knows what you should be prepared.” The words are said quietly with much more fondness than there had ever been when talking about Arya’s less than ‘ladylike’ qualities. Sansa holds on for just a little longer, ignoring the urge to press a kiss to her sister’s head as to not push things just a little too far. When she catches her husband’s gaze she does mouth a silent “Thank you.”

“Borrow! We’re  _ borrowing.  _ Arya!” She doubts her words are even heard over the level of excitement, and it’s a little hard not to get caught up in it too. Sansa watches her sister dart through the trees of the Godswood until it’s no longer possible to see her, and when she’s turned she’s not surprised at how close Jaime’s gotten.

It’s nice to know that she’s still just as attuned to his movements in this life as she had been in the last.

“I do.” Her hands squeeze his as if reassuring him of that fact. She doesn’t have to like it, doesn’t have to be thrilled at the prospect of Arya being in danger  _ again _ but she can’t fight the wind. There are some things that will be inevitable in any life, Sansa’s starting to believe, and she laughs, Tully-blue eyes bright. “ _ Arya _ is the best,” she teases if only to ensure his modesty. “I’m glad it will be you,” she finally adds, still not sure she wants to ever completely understand how her sister had become so  **lethal** .

The words to reassure him that it’s a good plan die on the tip of her tongue, and Sansa shakes her head. “We won’t have to steal moments forever, Jaime. I meant what I said. I am yours, until the end of my days. We just need to play the game a little longer first.”

The very game she would much rather  _ avoid _ than dive into headfirst.

And she knows he’s trying for her – knows that if there was truly any way to keep her out of King’s Landing that her husband would manage to find it. But there’s no way around it, and so Sansa takes a moment. She steps forward and buries her face into Jaime’s chest and breathes in a slow, shaky breath. It’s only once she exhales that Sansa steps back, panic somewhat replaced with a steel determination. “No we can’t, Jaime. My family...They died because they made  _ stupid  _ mistakes. My father thought the world would be as honorable as he was, and I thought by simply telling the Queen that he planned on taking us away we could  _ stay. _ ”

A stupid little girl with stupid dreams who never learns.

A little bird.

“When my family travels south I’ll be going with them.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just another shout-out to Priestess_of_Groove and her fic The Dragon's Roar, which inspired much of Jaime's time in King's Landing without Sansa. 
> 
> If you are enjoying our story so far, please subscribe to the series rather than this fic, as we will be posting the story in increments as individual fics. Thank you for reading!


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